


A Mercenary’s Gambit

by nimfarella



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27585628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimfarella/pseuds/nimfarella
Summary: With the High King in the mountains and the Gentle Queen in the desert, there is no better time to assassinate the Valiant Queen—that is, if they can get past her brother first.  (Loosely based on The Horse and His Boy)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	1. Chasing Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> i took an elective this summer and landed a class that discussed cs lewis and narnia. the brilliant professor inspired me to pick up a pen again, and now this work is a sort of escape from everything; the pandemic, climate change, and fascism, where Narnia otherwise gives me peace.

More evil gets done in the name of righteousness than any other way."

―Glen Cook

* * *

“Edmund! Edmund! We’ve got another one!” cries Lucy, slamming the door in giggling haste. 

“Quiet down, Lu, your voice echoing in the hallways will frighten the nymphs again,” her brother chastises, nose buried in a book about Narnian philosophy. 

“Sorry, I lost my way,” Lucy whispers. “I’d forgotten you moved into a new room.” 

“Yes, the pipe in my old one started leaking again,” Edmund drawls, thumbing the next page absentmindedly. “I’ll see if I can commission the dwarves to fix it. If treaties won’t sway them to pledge allegiance, perhaps installments will do.” 

“But plumbing aside,” Lucy starts to beam, “The raven brought us a new letter!” 

Edmund puts down his book and jumps to his feet. “From both of them?”

Lucy hesitates for a brief second before revealing she had only one letter between her fingers. 

The curve in Edmund’s smile dropped a little. 

“But I’m sure Peter’s will arrive any moment,” Lucy quickly adds in consolation, knowing well her brother is just as quick to draw assumptions.

Edmund sighs. He’s like this every time his siblings’ whereabouts are out of his radar, especially during war. Especially Peter. 

Like the diplomat king that he is, he often wonders why he wasn’t the one sent off to the North to negotiate with the Ettinsmoor giants. When travelers brought word of the Ettins deliberately attacking explorers, warriors, and other Narnian settlers along the Northern Frontier, the High King took it upon himself to embark on a formal expedition. Alone. 

Peter had a difficult time explaining to Edmund. 

“I know you’re capable, Ed—” Peter had said. 

“Capable?” Edmund had interjected. “If I could broker a detente between the black and red dwarves—”

“I’m sure they would’ve married each other if you persuaded them—but I fear if we don’t play our pieces right, tensions could escalate,” Peter insisted. 

It took a few more exchanges until Edmund finally relented, owing to the impression that perhaps one monarch is effective, and two are intimidating. Despite their size, giants are easily provoked and are surprisingly superstitious. “Peter, your mythical blonde hair is enough to send them running.” 

Now, it has been two weeks since his brother left Narnia to secure the northern borders and establish the boundary of where the giants may claim absolute their loosely independent state. 

He hasn’t heard from him since. 

Without Peter to steady his undulating emotions, Edmund tries his best to reel in any signs of hysteria and puts on a brave facade, if only for his sister’s sake. “Let’s open up Susan’s then.” 

Lucy tears the seal of the red lion in haste. 

> _Dearest Lucy and Ed,_
> 
> _I’ve arrived safely in Calormen. The prince and his court have been treating me extremely well, though I can’t say the same for their subjects. I will do my utmost to subdue the growing tensions between our countries._
> 
> _In the meantime, please do respond more often to my letters. Why do I get only one for every five I send both of you?_
> 
> _Susan_

“It’s because she keeps sending things like ‘the salmon roe we packed her had already gone sour.’” Edmund sneers with a caricature of Susan’s accent.

“You know very well the sweltering heat of Calormen. The apples we sent her apparently fermented so quickly it had gotten a stowaway squirrel drunk.”

“Then why did she have to travel on horseback in the desert and not through the Calormene ports on a ship?” Edmund wonders. “Even at a full day’s gallop, sailing takes half the journey and less toll on the soldiers.”

Lucy tucks the letter away in her dresser where the compartment of Susan’s is filled to the brim while Peter’s stayed empty. “Rabadash insisted she take the way through the desert. Says he plans to escort her halfway.”

“What a dapper gent,” Edmund mocks, sitting down and placing his arms behind his head. “If he were of real nobility, he’d have the decency to visit Narnia for Susan. Instead, he has the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair.” 

“Susan would absolutely trade him for an oblong pastry,” Lucy shares Edmund’s conspiratorial smile. “If Rabadash didn’t command an entire brigade.”

“If Rabadash didn’t have the compulsory power of a dictator, I never would have let him win the tournament,” Edmund says through gritted teeth.

“You’re still not over the tournament of over three years ago?”

“My contempt only grows everyday,” he sighs. “For now, only his poppet downstairs will feel my wrath,” Edmund glares at the straw-filled mannequin posted at the mid-field of the castle manors where he goes to blow off steam, as do many of the soldiers who love spilling the imaginary innards of the arrogant prince. 

Rabadash was only royalty by blood but never by honor. The Pevensies were the opposite. Edmund suspects it is the crux of the prince’s grievance on his family; they will always be a reminder of the respect and admiration he was denied. And such proudness was compensated by an inexhaustible panache for showing off skills that weren’t really there, and sending threats he probably never had the stomach to execute. 

“But do you think there’s a chance Rabadash would ever declare war on Narnia?” Lucy prods at the idea, hoping her brother will dismantle her uneasiness. Edmund always knows how to calm Lucy down. 

“With the Pevensies on the throne? He wouldn’t dream of it.” Edmund says easily, soothing as ever. 

“But even then… “ he continues, standing up to walk towards Lucy. He takes her hands in his. “I would never let anything happen to you.” He says, more hush in tone. “That’s why we need to be careful, Lu. And less trusting.” _As Peter told him._

“Are we truly safe here?” Lucy looks up at her brother, an entire foot taller than her. 

Edmund wraps his arms around his sister’s shoulders, his chin on top of her head in protective embrace. “In these walls, Lucy, no one will ever harm you, not with me on the watch.” 

  
  


_~O~_

That night, the moon shines bright and clear. Guards are patrolling every nook and cranny of the castle fortress where the two monarchs—usually four—slept. But repeat a routine a thousand times, some of them are bound to miss a shadow moving in stealth. 

At the foot of Cair Paravel, where moss grows on the damp floors of a cave-like tunnel, two soldiers are afoot, guarding its entrance. 

“Time for my shift,” a faun says, approaching a centaur with a lit torch in one hand.

“Finally,” the centaur responds dryly, taking the torch from him. 

There is a slight rustle of noise that distracts the two, making them pay a particular brand of attention to an inanimate shrub that seems to have gained motor sentience. 

As they unsheath their swords, they barely register the sound of two darts hurling towards them at lightning speed, latching on their necks where the joint of their armour failed to protect them. They collapse with a thud when something emerges from the shadows.

“I told you not to use the sedatives, Calla!” a fox snaps, shaking himself clean of muddy leaves. “Do you think poppies bloom the whole bloody year? Those are for dire situations!” 

“They get the job done faster, Bane” a woman hovering behind his tail reasons. She takes the blowdart hanging around her neck and tucks it into her tunic. 

“We are in the middle of a heist and you expect not to lift a finger?” The fox rolls his eyes. She ignores him to pocket the keys from the guards. “The map I gave you should point to where the Queen sleeps.” He instructs as Calla begins to roll out a scroll. 

“East Wing for the Valiant Queen, directly facing the Eastern Sea.” She outlines. 

“And West Wing to the Western Wood, for the Just.” Bane affirms.

“Make sure the boy doesn’t interrupt.” Calla reminds him, which only makes Bane laugh.

“And when it comes down to it, do I kill him as well?”

“No,” she says after some thought. “Let him live. When he sees his sister, he might just do it himself.”

“Less work for us, then,” Bane winks. Calla wraps a turban around her head, and pulls a fabric up to her nose, sealing her identity.

They gesture goodbye to each other before going through separate tunnels for separate missions. 

Blinking in the dark, Calla turns to follow the directional change of the tunnel where she encounters the ruddy glow of a torch in an iron sconce. The tunnel curved again, pitching sharply upward. 

Only one chance to do this right, she thinks. Keeping the image of the map fresh in her head, she tries to piece together where the Valiant Queen is sleeping. 

-O-

Edmund leaves Lucy’s room with a tip toe, careful not to wake her up. Peter had always kissed her goodnight, and he made no secret of it. It was a sacred ritual that started their first night in Cair Paravel. A familiar gesture of their mother, Peter said he hoped to emulate. So Edmund thought that while Peter was away, he could help ease his sister’s separation anxiety staying by her fireplace until she drifts. 

Closing the door, he catches a glimpse of her smiling with her eyes closed.

Sweet Lucy always dreams of good things. Edmund has anything but. And he’s not sure what to make of it.

Was he always doomed to suffer the aftermath of one betrayal? Being forgiven, even by Aslan, isn’t like magic. There are loose ends to be dealt with. Just because something was resolved doesn’t mean it has all dissolved. 

The nightmares were only proof of it. So like always, Edmund refuses to sleep. 

He thinks of Peter, off in the mountains, defending the helpless like the fearless knight he was always meant to be. He usually disagrees that Peter is Magnificent; mostly because Peter is more than that. He charges in the front lines. He takes the first watch. He eats the rations last. Peter is selfless, and kind… and always writes back. 

What reason could his perfect brother have for not writing back?

The night was quieter than usual, he observed. 

Edmund tries to make sense of his surroundings. Where were the guards that patrolled the hallways outside his sister’s room? A sharp glint of light from his periphery grabs his attention. 

He only has a split second to react to a knife hurling towards him, but it was enough for his reflexes to kick in and dive to the ground. The knife hisses right by his ear by a hair’s breadth, and sticks its landing on a faraway pillar. His attacker emerges from the wall, deeply camouflaged by the turban they were wearing, and unsheathes a sword with a slow and reverberating hiss. 

Edmund didn’t have weapons, but he could tell—by the way his attacker held their weapon—that they were far less experienced. An untrained wielder with a sword is about as threatening as the Rabadash poppet in the manor. 

They lunge forward, with harsh and broad swipes that Edmund only manages to keep dodging. When they lift their arms to strike once more, Edmund dives towards their unguarded flank and tackles them to the ground, knocking the greatsword out of their hands in the process. They both roll back to their feet, putting as much distance between them as they could. In a defensive stance, they lock eyes with each other, then on the sword not too far away. 

In the heat of the moment, Edmund decides to make a break for the sword, and doesn’t notice the intruder’s hand reaching for the crease of their tunic. 

Edmund’s hand reaches for the hilt on time, before feeling a sharp pain swelling from his neck, blurring his vision, and making him collapse with a grunt. 

-O- 

The distant bellow of a horn erupts and it choruses to several more horns blowing in unison to signal an attack. 

The Just King lies unconscious on his chest, limbs splayed to the ground in awkward positions. Calla is more angered than alarmed about the bells when Bane appears. 

“Bane! You were supposed to be on the lookout for the King!”

“He wasn’t where he was supposed to be! How is that my doing?”

“It’s too late,” Calla ties the last knot on the King’s wrist with a sharp pull. “The guards are on their way and we have no time to get to the Queen.”

“Then take her brother instead.”

Reluctantly, Calla picks up the king and drapes his arms over her shoulders, never minding that his feet are dragging behind them. “The Queen would have been much easier to carry.”

Calla is struggling to carry the King’s weight as they weave through the halls and slip into the vents of the walls where the tunnel had brought them. 

“To the stables,” she says. “Hurry, we need to chase the moonlight.”

The low, distant bellow of a massive horn erupts from within Cair Paravel, sending Bane and Calla’s horse leaping into the glen and out of the castle within moments.

"Well, that was not the plan at all!!” Calla remarks, briefly looking at the unconscious monarch draped over face down on the hip of the horse.

He’s sedated so deeply that even when Calla gives the horse more rein and the canter gives away to a gallop, the young King remains unfazed by the turbulence of the ride. 

“Could’ve given us more time if you hadn’t spent an extra minute toying with him!” Bane interjects as he runs beside them, careful not to get too close to the stomping hooves. 

“I had it under control!”

They find themselves at the foot of Narnian territory, where the forest of Owlwood stood in all of its menacing glory at midnight. Calla and Bane look at each other, hesitant to enter.

“The woods, Bane! Come on!” 

Calla doesn’t kick the horse into motion yet when she sees Bane frozen on the ground. He is shaking his head. “We’d sooner die if we set foot in there.” 

From afar, the bridge of Cair Paravel is ablaze with flickering torches, carried by a throng of armored centaurs charging towards their direction. Calla gives him one look.

“ _If the sun claims it has power over the moon, let it follow in the night.”_

Bane lowers his ears, looking back once more at the imminent threat, and deciding the one in front is the lesser evil. 

He turns to Calla, who nods reassuringly, and they both speed into the void of the forest, unbeknownst to them that they have chosen a worse fate.

  
  



	2. Chasing Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the mercenaries escape, but barely with their lives.

-O-

When the fox hears the rabbit scream, he comes a running, but not to help.

\- _The Silence of the Lambs_

 _-_ O _-_

* * *

The woods prove to be perilous.

The moonlight could barely pierce the canopies, leaving them running blind. Streams of mists reach down, finger like, as if to grab them into chokehold. Calla rights herself in the saddle as the horse revels in the speed, his nose blowing hard. 

She looks back, dreading to see if the Narnian hordes are in pursuit of them. 

The moment she makes the mistake of taking her eyes off the path in front of her, she fails to respond on time when a long branch strikes her in the face and sends her catapulting over the horse’s back, dragging the King tied to her. 

“Calla!” Bane yells as the horse side steps him and runs away, trotting to freedom. The fox is muzzling her by the time Calla props herself up on her elbows.

“There goes our ride… and our weapons” she deadpans, internally kicking herself for not putting the sword on her person at all times. All she has now is the dagger, but she looks at the Just King, stirring in his sleep-induced state, and decides that it’s enough to do the job right. 

“What will we do now?” Bane asks, eyes darting from tree to tree with reservations about their safety.

“We might not be able to make it out of here,” Calla realizes. “We must do it in the forest.” 

Bane shakes his head. “This plan was doomed from the start. We should have called it off!” 

“You’re right, Bane. We can always just kidnap the monarchs another time!” She retorts. “I’m certain the Queen will understand when we return him and tell her ‘Sorry, it was a bloody _accident,_ we meant to kill you, not your brother—!” 

“Wait!” Bane interrupts, ears perking up. “Shut up for a moment,” He sniffs some more and his frozen expression morphs into a rictus of horror when he picks up a new scent. 

“Narnians. They’re following us?” Calla asks, despite knowing very well she’s not going to like his answer.

"It's not them we should be worried about.” A sinister howl echoes, and no one could point out where it came from. The most unsettling attribute of this forest are the sounds that seem to rise from the very underworld itself. 

Bane instructs Calla to drag the Just King towards an underground niche where a slab of rock provided shelter. 

Owlwood is the forest home to the creatures of Jadis that have descended into mindless savages, eating and killing everything on its path. Only fools blinded with either idiocracy or pride could have brought them to such merciless terrain. 

“Do tell me you haven’t used up all the poppy darts?” He asks, even though he is certain what the answer would be.

She answers: ”How did you expect me to fight all the guards, Bane?” and it is enough to make him spiral. 

“Do you remember when I said mercenaries should remember to dig two graves before they leave?” Bane gulps. “I’m beginning to think that the second one had always been for me.”

“It was your decision to accompany me.” Calla reminds him.

Bane snorts. "I hope I live to regret that." 

There is a rustling in the far edge of the forest. Sounds of whimper and quiet growling, fleeting apparitions that disappeared within a blink of an eye. Everywhere they turn, something seems to move, hide or poke their heads out. Yellow eyes scurry from every direction and each second; they all seem to approach closer.

Calla knows they couldn't hide, nor could any fortes keep them safe from these wildlings. They are brutal, vicious, and most of all, hungry.

Calla turns to Bane, and she sees in the sibyls of his eyes the futile attempt at escaping.

"Listen, Calla." His stern voice draws her attention away. "If I distract them, you can finish the mission."

She frowns. "That's your plan? Martyrdom?"

Bane shrugs, "Believe me, I'd very much like another option if you have a better one."

"I can fight them off," she offers.

"I said 'better' not get us _both_ killed."

"Come now, Bane, this is not the time for chivalry—"

"Oh, spare me, Calla. If I'm getting torn apart tonight, I might as well die with my dignity intact." He crouches lower, ears detecting the fast approaching footsteps.

“Besides, it’s about time I live up to my name,” he says, looking at Calla with wistful eyes. “To be truly a wolf's bane.”

"Bane, don't!" Calla reaches out to grab his tail, but he has already bolted towards the incoming wolves ready to enter the alcove. He snarls, claws, and nips at them with an impossible reflex, trying to draw their attention away from his human. It seems to be working as the pack followed the fox away from the niche where Calla was.

There is only the sounds of erupting howls fading. She could feel the distance put between her and danger, but it drove a stake through her heart thinking about Bane fighting alone.

Then, she remembers what she’s here for, what she and Bane have readily offered their lives to achieve. Calla walks over to the Just King splat on the ground, grabs the underside of his arms and drags him to a pile of rocks that had begun to glow with the feeble beams of the moonlight. 

She begins to set everything up in place: a slave trader's currency dropped on the ground, a turban turned into a makeshift shackle to his wrists, and brings out a dagger carved with Calormene sigils. 

She stares at him long and hard, as if the memory of killing him won’t already be burned in the back of her eyelids. 

His eyes are struggling to keep open, his haggard body succumbing to fatigue. And his breathing slows.

Standing above the king, she grabs the hilt of a dagger and lets the tip of the blade point directly at his chest. She tries to evade the thoughts that suddenly entered her mind; he looks very young, as if he has his whole life ahead of him to live. But Narnians didn’t deserve such a fine life. Narnians only protect their own. And she must do the same.

She raises the blade, and takes a breath. “Where force rules, justice does not exist.”

The blade sinks a violent thrust into his flesh and hisses when she draws it out. Blood oozes from his torso and pools on his tunic. When the young king—the boy—chokes blood and his hitched breathing suddenly drops, Calla refuses to look at him. As if she is almost afraid to feel any trace of remorse.

At least it has been quick.

Calla exhales in satisfaction. and drops the dagger, leaving it in plain sight. It is done. The Just King is finished.

"Calla!"

At the sound of her name, Calla's head turns to her left to see Bane half-limping, half-sprinting along the ground. His front paw is smeared in blood, and his fur is tainted from grisly frays. "You have to leave! There's more of them coming!" He pants, before plummeting to the ground, hind legs giving in to fatigue.

Calla leaves the young man and kneels down beside Bane. "You're losing too much blood."

Bane slunks his head, unable to stop his eyes from closing. "Well then, you better leave. I don't want to lose anything else."

The cries of wolves are fast approaching. The ground shakes at their arrival. Calla looks around, realizing she is left alone to survive.

She turns her head, the wolves are already surrounding them in formation. One of them crouches in front of her, baring its teeth and snarling. They wanted to finish off the live one first instead of indulging in a meal that fights back.

Another wolf tries to nip at Bane's leg to haul him away. Calla grabs the dagger and swings it at the wolf but it leaps at her feet instead. She drops her only weapon in the process and shrieks, as it is her turn to be dragged.

Calla screams for help, but the cries only disappear in the otherwise peaceful, vast, and empty night sky.

Its fangs digs onto her heel while another one joins mauling on her shoulder. Calla's hands are hopelessly searching the earth for Bane's paws that aren't there.

Until she feels the hilt of the dagger on her palms. She yanks it towards her and swings in a broad arc over her head, driving it through the wolf's skull.

The sound of steel cracking on bone made the others pull back in caution. Sitting up, she faces another one on her heel and drives the sword to its head. It yelps before dropping to the ground, motionless. The wolves back away, keeping a safe distance from her, until they finally decide she is too weak to fight back.

Calla's vision blurs. She is sure they were coming in again for another round. She is too tired to even check.

Her eyes flick over to where Bane is. His breathing is barely audible. She could hardly see the rise and fall of his chest. He must be dead too.

Her grip on the dagger slackens as she lays her head back in surrender; she has done what she had to do tonight. She served her country and delivered it with a Narnian monarch's blood. And what an honor to be transubstantiated from human flesh to wolf, to live in their spirit that will cause nothing but mayhem. And look , the sun is rising, as if to welcome her in paradise.

The wolves howl in triumph, before flashing their fangs to sink them in their prey.

Suddenly, a cry of soldiers shakes the very ground itself. Shrieks of animals and whinnies of horses all together make the wolves angrily driven away in a startled cluster.

Calla sees the bright light of the dawn approaching, before her vision fades to darkness.

* * *

She wakes to the sun streaming in her face through tall windows.

Squinting against the sunlight, Calla stirs her body, hoping to feel that her limbs are somehow still attached.

"Oh, you're finally awake." She hears the voice of a woman greet her.

Calla shakes her head. “I didn’t—I didn’t die?” 

“No, but—” the woman takes her hand, and cups it with her own. “—you almost did. You must have been through so much pain.”

_I—I made it out alive,_ she thinks. The last thing she remembers is being cornered. Bleeding.

But there is one scenario she couldn't shake out of her head. It is so vividly etched in her memory. 

She remembers wielding a weapon stained by blood. _His_ blood _._ Finally, after how many years she spent waiting for that moment, she has done the impossible. 

She rests back on her pillow, her worries slightly allayed. Calla reaches for the bandages donned to her shoulder. Crimson is surfacing up the cloth and she can feel the itch of the dried blood. But when she lifts the bandages, the wound is barely visible. There is not even a scar.

“Where am I?” Calla asks, gazing at the room to inspect her surroundings. It’s definitely too clean to be Calormen, and Archenland would much rather do with marble than stone. 

"The Narnian infirmary," she answers, with as much hospitality she could muster. Calla feels her heart drop from her rib cage. 

She could not be safe here. Not after what she’s done.

“You were nearly dead last night,” the woman remarks as if that had been the most important fact. "Had I not used my cordial to heal you, I do not think you would have pulled through."

Cordial? There’s only one person in the land equipped with the rare and potent juice of the fireflower.

“You’re Queen Lucy?”

“It’s alright. There’s really no need for titles.” The Queen—unrecognizable by the chainmail and armor she wore—insisted with humble providence. “Just my name will do.”

Calla’s blood roars in her ears. The woman that has been marked for gleaning is right in front of her. She wants to jump at her and take her chance, but Calla knows she is in no condition to attack an armoured queen. The moment she tries to use her limbs to stand, she backpedals and folds in pain. 

“Oh dear, my cordial may have healed your injuries but you’re in terrible condition,” the Queen takes a moment to pour a pitcher of water into the cup next to her. “Please drink this. But I do not suggest getting up. Your conscious body needs time to return from the nether.” 

“The w-what?” Calla asks, sputtering the drink. She bends over to keep herself from screaming. 

The Queen must be trying to distract her, as if it weren’t obvious that she has clearly tried to incapacitate her. “When my cordial heals someone so very near the brink of death, sometimes, it drains so much energy from the vessel,” She explains, gesturing to Calla’s body. “To coerce the soul back.”

What Calla would have given to not be in the condition hampering her from decorating the stone floor with spilled blood. But if she acts too reckless too soon, and too underprepared, she may not get another chance. Calla decides to restrain her ambitious thirst. 

“You think my soul left my body?” she decides to ask in mockery and disbelief.

“That really depends what you believe in. Everyone I heal forgets where they’ve gone. But I like to think our souls tread the very border of Aslan’s country himself,” the Queen half-answers, half-ponders herself. “But those are matters for the departed. What matters is that you’re alive and well.”

Calla is surprised at the lengths they had gone to retrieve her from the clutches of death itself. Although she couldn't receive all the credit, she had barely escape with her life, if only at the expense of—

"Bane!" Panic seizes her when she remembers the horror that had happened to them that night. She props herself up on her elbows and proceeds to sit up, though it makes her wince in agony.

Lucy rushes to her side, prompting her to sit down. "If you mean your fox, then he's resting in the room across yours."

"How is he? Is he alright?" Calla asks her weakly and desperately as she sits down.

"He's fine. My cordial works miracles," she assures, and Calla feels like she could breathe again. "In fact, all three of you survived because of it."

Calla pauses. Her voice drops a hoarse whisper. 

"Three?"

  
  



	3. Chasing Illusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where lies save time, and the truth cuts them in half.

“There are two kinds of people in this world, son. Those who save lives, and those who take lives."

"And what of those who protect and defend? Those who save lives by taking lives?"

"That's like trying to stop a storm by blowing harder. Ridiculous. You can't protect by killing.” 

\- Brandon Sanderson, _The Way of Kings_

* * *

“Three?” 

Calla repeats, almost as if to insist it was wrong. 

“I, too, was worried he wouldn’t make it,” she told her. “You were all so fatally wounded. My brother, most of all. I didn’t even check his wounds—only saw that he had lost so much blood that if I had spared another second and not used my cordial on him the minute I arrived, he surely would be dead by now.” 

Calla doesn’t know what to make of the situation. She is torn between being relieved to be alive, or furious that he is. She has failed. And now that she’s within enemy territory, she’s ready to hear her sentence.

“My brother doesn’t remember a thing—just that Calormenes had kidnapped him. The only thing that doesn’t quite add up is how you fit into the narrative—why _you_ were there.”

Calla looks up in surprise. They’ve fallen for the bait. Though they don’t see her as the culprit as of now, they had every right not to trust her… yet. It’s time she tells stories. 

“What would you like to know?” She asks, like an open book. 

“Well, what were you doing in that forest in the first place?” 

Calla tries to weave her story together and thinks of what they used to quote in the guild: _lies are easiest told when mingled with parts of the truth._

“I was coming from Archenland with my companion, Bane. He’s Narnian, you see, sold from slavery in Calormen.”

Calla knew such sentiments made Narnians vulnerable, thus making it a point to start her story from there. “I came to return him to his homeland, but we took a shortcut through Owlwood. Looking back, that wasn’t the smartest decision.”

“Yes, a Narnian fox would have known the dangers of such a place,” the Queen remarks. “But your fox had never stepped foot into our country, has he?”

“Not a peep,” she replies, and pretends to take a sip of water to stall and run simulations of her story in her head. She finds one that seemed most plausible. 

“While traveling through the woods, we came across these people on horseback, people with turbans on their heads and curved swords—and with them was a man tied up. Immediately, we knew they were slave traders, and I knew better than to intrude,” Calla takes a sip of water as if to calm her shaky breath. “But dear Bane, sweet fox, he knew what it was like to be a slave— knew the cruelty under Calormene rule, and wouldn’t let it go.” 

Calla does not fail to notice minute degree changes in the Valiant Queen’s disposition, knowing full well that she has painted exactly the picture Narnians have always believed to a fault: that the enemy was out there, and not in front of them. 

The entire plan, although frayed in design, had been woven in with threads to make a safety net: as long as it could blame the Calormenes, Calla—who looked more Archenlander than a Calormene—could feign her way to a Narnian’s trust. 

Narnians and their preemptive judgement towards the Southerners proved an effective distraction for her subterfuge.

She continues her story, “I don’t know what we were thinking: two of us against four experienced killers, but before we could charge in—that’s when the wolves came,” Calla says in a more somber tone. “They attacked the horse carrying the man and he dropped on the forest ground. The slave traders made a run for it—didn’t even look back. Bane and I held our ground to keep him safe but… they were too many.”

She pauses and looks down, swallowing gall in her mouth. 

The monarch approaches her and takes her hand in hers. “Thank you for not leaving my brother. I promise you those Calormene slave traders will pay for this atrocity.” 

“We’re alive, thanks to you,” she replies. “That’s what matters.”

It worked. The Queen thinks she is innocent—as long as she plays her cards right. 

“If it shouldn’t bother your Majesty, I would like to see Bane.” She tells the queen straightforwardly, fighting the biting discomfort on her chest. 

“You really shouldn’t get up—”

“It’s alright, I need to see him,” she insists. _Before they wake him up for questioning._

“Of course,” Queen Lucy readily accepts, “He’s only in the room next to my brother. Follow me.” 

As Calla limps out of the room, she thinks of her luck as unbelievably fickle. She’s alive. But the only person who could compromise it is alive too. 

She almost chokes at the flashing memory of his dying body at the mercy of his own weapon, but swallows the bitterness. Mercenaries weren’t supposed to feel awful. She has credits waiting at her return. Only if she has good news.

Without a Narnian monarch’s body to bring back, she cannot return. She tries to reel her worries in; she will find another way. From the inside this time. 

“He’s resting in here.” Queen Lucy pushes the lever of the door and cranks it open. 

Bane is sleeping on a Narnian quilt the moment Calla enters. At the sound of her footsteps, his ears shoot up with a sudden jolt, though his eyes were half open as though he had drunk an entire canister of poppy milk. 

“Calla?” He sniffs, relying on his smell when his eyes could barely afford him clarity.

Calla runs to his side and scratches the fur behind his ear. “I’m here. I can’t believe you’re alive.”

Bane melts in her touch and curls in her arms like a newborn pup with much enthusiasm.“Well, it takes more than a wolf to kill me.”

“It did take more than a drop of my healing cordial to revive you as well.” The Queen chuckles from afar, gleefully observing the union. 

Bane shyly rolls upright and feels shame enough to bow. 

“Your Majesty,” he says curtly, “I am humbled that you should spare your gifts towards an undeserving character such as myself.”

“Oh, but the only way to be deserving is to be in need of it.” She returns. “I would never ration my cordial. That is the only time it would be a waste.”

Bane nods in gratification. “Indeed.” 

Calla deems it appropriate to return a gesture of politeness. “The moment Bane is all well, we will leave and bother you no further.” 

“No, please. You two make yourselves at home," Queen Lucy contends. "Here, you’re honored guests. She offers them a radiant smile, the kind where Calla is reminded of such beauty and dimension that she usually disposes in her targets in an attempt to reduce them—label them as a statistic. 

She tries to avoid finding her kindness mesmerizing. The moment the Queen leaves, Calla begins to plot again. 

_____

  
  


Edmund once told Lucy that security is the promise a monarch makes when they accept the crown—there is no room for vulnerability, for when a monarch is compromised, there is no better time for a kingdom to falter.

Edmund had nearly died last night. 

That day, Lucy doubled the patrol guards, increased daily inspections and rotated posts for maximum security. She reduced her inner circle to a smaller, more trusted taskforce. She shut down ports and banned foreign trading ships from docking. 

There is something brewing on her radar. She cannot be sure, but she fears the worst is about to come. 

Lucy opens the door to the infirmary where Edmund is resting. Hearing the creak of the door, the Just King wakes up with a jolt, as if he had seen a ghost in his sleep. Upon flashing both eyes open to the safe haven of the infirmary, he sighs heavily in relief and buries his face into his hands. Lucy watches him as he then sits up on the bed and sets both his feet down to feel the wooden floor. He is frozen there, deeply reflecting and remembering what had occurred in his sleep that startled him so much. 

Lucy notices there was something odd about the way he moved. His fingers kept fidgeting around the spot where a shard of ice once tore through.

“Edmund?” 

He blinks harshly at the sound of her voice as if he snapped back to reality. Sitting up squarely on bed, he looks up at his sister and sees the frigid concern in her eyes, “Lucy.” He breaths, almost inaudibly. She doesn’t even have to ask if he dreamt of a nightmare. He never has anything otherwise. 

Lucy grabs hold both of his shoulders, gently trying to shake him out of his dulled gaze. “What was it this time?”

He looks away and turns to the view beyond the confines of the window. It is a lovely autumn morning; the soft breath of the wind swiftly plucking the leaves from their branches, insinuating the arrival of a cold but heavenly beautiful winter. To him, however, winter is anything but heavenly. Winter is anything but beautiful. He doesn’t hold grudges, yes, but he can’t let go of memories. Especially the haunting ones. 

“The same one.” Edmund puts a hand on his chest where his heart is still thumping. “The same one every night since.”

Lucy’s face darkens with understanding. “The White—” she pauses to correct herself and sensibly rephrases her words, “Her. She was chasing you again?” 

“Yes.” He nods, “Only this time, she ‘had’ me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I—I dreamt... “ he sputters, feeling the words catch in his throat. “I dreamt I died, Lucy.” He closes his eyes with dismay. “It never ended like that.” 

Lucy is tongue tied. Her brother is a man of strength and conviction. To see him petrified in his own pall of misfortune, she could only imagine what kind of struggle he is going through that could render such a resilient man helpless. Edmund points to his torso. “Even the scar. It hurt. Almost as if I had been stabbed again.”

“Edmund, can you still not remember what happened to you last night?” Lucy asks, hoping to extract some kind of information to understand his sullen behavior. These past few weeks, he didn’t seem so bothered by his usual nightmares and she wondered if they either disappeared, or he had just gotten so used to seeing them in his visions that he became sort of numb to it. Just when she had started hoping for better days the incident last night triggered the very worst thing.

Lucy watches him rub at his eyes as if he feels the image of his nightmares burn at the back of his eyelids and he wants to scrub them away. “Edmund, say something?” 

Edmund retrieves his hands from his face to peer up at her. He wants to tell her everything. He wants someone like his beloved sister to make sense of these dreams and visions when he couldn’t understand them himself. But when he tries to open his mouth and explain in full detail, the words seem to garble in his throat and he is forced to swallow the chance. 

His nose scrunches up in frustration. He couldn’t remember. He still couldn’t seem to recall anything.

“All I remember is the silhouette of a Calormene coming towards me—maybe two or three—I can’t be sure.”

“They were slave traders, Edmund. They took you from our castle,” Lucy tries to piece the puzzle together for him. “And two strangers had saved your life.”

Edmund looks down. Something hadn’t felt right.

He has fleeting visions, sightings of indistinct phantoms, but he couldn’t seem to put any of them together in one coherent story. He doesn’t want to spit out nonsense ramblings so he withholds them.

Lucy sits down beside him and lays her head on his shoulder. She holds his hand and rubs her palms against his to calm him down. “It’s alright, Edmund.” She assures him, and wishing everything would stay quiet as it is. “You’re safe now.” 

“A letter for their Majesties!” a Talking Raven courier interrupts, flapping its wings to slow its perch on the window sill. 

Lucy sighs at losing a brief moment of respite with her brother, but thanks the Raven anyhow for his service, takes the paper from his claws and dismisses him. She hacks open the seal with her thumb and unfolds it, eyes suddenly darkening as she skims through the letter.

“Lucy? What’s wrong?” Edmund tries to probe the answers from his sister’s eyes. “Is it Peter? Is he in danger?”

“It’s from Susan,” Lucy finally rasps, the color drained from her face. “Something’s happened.”

Edmund’s eyes flit to the window that faced the Southern Kingdom. “What has Rabadash done now?”

“Something terrible,” Lucy felt her legs give. “The prince proposed to Susan.” 

This cannot be good, Edmund thinks, knowing that any answer to that proposal yielded all the consequences Susan cannot be safe in. By the Lion’s Mane, was Rabadash planning it this whole excursion? 

That didn’t matter for now. His sister may just be in danger.

And Peter knew nothing. If Peter is still out there at all. 

“What did Susan say in the letter, Lucy?” Edmund dreads, feeling in the pit of his stomach that the answer would snowball into an avalanche. 

“Edmund, she has fled Calormen.”

  
  



	4. Chasing Rifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where anger spells disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for waiting!

~O~

Better to have one thousand enemies outside the house than to have one single enemy inside it.

– Lebanese Proverb

~O~

“Insolent! Despicable! DISGRACEFUL!” 

The Grand Vizier is having a hard time trying to chase the hysterical prince pushing vases that were unfortunate enough to be on his path of destruction. 

“Never in my life had I been so HUMILIATED… by an ACCURSED BARBARIAN,” he proceeds to make a series of aimless kicks in the air. 

“Please, my enlightened prince, might you refrain from destroying thousand-year-old relics…”

“I want to declare war IMMEDIATELY,” The prince says without much elaboration. “How do I go about it, old babbler Ahoshta? Do I write a letter to the monarchs of my intentions?”

“My esteemed and infinitely intelligent prince,” Ahoshta coddles, almost regretting his obligations as a Vizier to compliment the prince at his every whim. “One cannot simply “order” a war as one might order a slave. There must be due reason and formal process for such a... delicate matter.”

“Then I would like to delicately request for an ASSEMBLY OF TROOPS.”

“Please, O most inflammable Rabadash,” Ahoshta is practically walking with his knees. “You must bring your father’s counsel into this!”

“Then acquire my father’s permission, I shall!” Rabadash makes a sharp turn to the grand hallways where his father was conveniently in the royal chambers. His unannounced arrival disrupts the chatter of the courtiers who now turn their attention to the obnoxious prince. 

He falls to the floor, arms splayed on the ground and head facing the marbled tiles. “Oh-my-father-and-oh-the-delight-of-my-eyes,” he begins as soon as the Tisroc bids him to speak. “May you live forever, but… you have utterly destroyed me! Why have you persuaded me to let the false jade go!” 

“Compose yourself, O my son,” the Tisroc replies. “Departures are only as significant as those who make them so.”

“But I need her,” Rabadash cries in frenzied, almost rabid conviction. “I cannot stop thinking about her supple skin, her tender bosom, and complexion like she had died last week—” 

“How beautifully said!” Ahoshta exclaims in an attempt to save the dignity of the court. He turns to the Tisroc with a floor-length bow, “Surely, O most venerable harbinger of the sun and moon, you cannot deny the passion that has absolutely consumed our prince?”

The Tisroc is sunk deep in thought, hands twirling around his chin as if the answer were hidden within his beard. “Why must I entertain this notion of retrieving such a costly jewel, if it risks the collapse of the entire treasury?” 

It seems Rabadash was prepared for this moment. “O my father, I am rather of the opinion that in letting a WOMAN defy a prince, you will be sending a message to all the women of Calormen that it is theirs to deny what we men have rightfully claimed.” 

This piques the Tisroc’s interest. “Go on, child.”

Rabadash announces not only to his father but his regular audience. “Let you all be reminded that a country called Narnia which calls itself _free_ , is unbridled, disordered, and unprofitable, simply because they have allowed themselves to be ruled by an oppressive enchantress, and now they have fallen prey to one delusional High King, his terrible swordsman brother, the false jade, and the pathetic armoured queen.” 

This earns the laughter of the court, which bolsters what little credibility his rationale seems to have. “The equality of such a barbarian monarchy goes against the basic tenets of Tashbaan.” 

When he gains numerous nods from the audience, Rabadash approaches the Tisroc and kisses his feet. “Allow me to restore the luster of our reputation, with women not eclipsing the reign of man but shadowing it.” 

“The sentiment greatly pleases me,” the Tisroc finally replies in his deep, quiet voice. “But if the old enchantress that has plagued that region for a thousand years was upended by those same barbarians, I have my reservations attacking a country aided by a demon in the shape of a lion, or putting my hand further out than I can draw it back.”

“O my father, what if I can show you a way in which you can stretch out your arm to take what is ours and yet draw it back unharmed if the attempt proves unfortunate?”

“If you can produce it, O Rabadash, you will be the best of sons,” the Tisroc says. “How will you attempt such a dark and doubtful enterprise?”

“O father, the genius will only shock you,” Rabadash turns to the Grand Vizier with a sly grin. “Ahoshta, both spies you have hired are in Narnia, yes?”

“Affirmative, my prince. She has sent a raven to confirm it.” 

“What is this now?” Tisroc grows concerned. “You’ve sent spies behind my back?”

“O Tisroc, whose reign must and shall be interminable, this has all been part of my elaborate plan to give you what you truly want: Narnia, at your mercy. And all the slaves you could possibly have,” Rabadash offers as if it were his to readily give. “All I ask is for the barbarian queen to be mine.”

“Hear me, O my son, when I say that the barbarian four of Narnia bear strength together that cannot be easily undermined.” 

“To hear is to obey,” Rabadash agrees. “And that is exactly why, O father and delight of my eyes, that I will break them apart. One by one.”

* * *

“We are running out of options, your Majesty.” Oreius explains when Edmund asks him to elaborate on what constitutes as the worst strategy he thinks he’s ever made. 

“Marriage? _Marriage?”_ Edmund extrapolates each syllable as if doing so would somehow magically change the meaning. “My sister has just refused to marry the prince of Calormen—which could be grounds for war!—and _this_ is what we’re discussing?” 

“It’s exactly why we have to discuss it, Edmund,” Lucy counters. “You know Archenland is more subject to its traditions than its allegiances.”

“And just so we’re exploring all alternatives, you would not have been more… suitable to take my place?” Edmund offers.

“And I would have been more suitable for marriage because—?” Lucy lets her sentence hang in the air long enough for Edmund to realize his need to sensibly rephrase himself. 

“Forgive me, Lucy,” he twists his heel to Oreius instead. “I meant—how shall I put this— _are we on such a shortage of Archenlander bachelors?_ ” 

“To secure an alliance of great economic propensity, one that can guarantee a win in a war against Calormen,” Oreius explains, “It is paramount that it should be an Archenlander of high ranking. The only one suitable for Her Majesty, Queen Lucy, would be Prince Corin.” 

“Yes, Corin ‘Thunder-fist’!” Edmund recalls and is about to voice his approval when Oreius backpedals his enthusiasm. 

“Unfortunately, Prince Corin has been reported missing for the past month. No one knows where he has gone. Some speculate he has run away.”

Oreius could feel Edmund grating the wooden table with his fingers and is certain Edmund will implode if he continues but does so anyway. 

“Fortunately, King Lune has a niece, one he is looking for an advantageous marriage.” 

Lucy tilts her head. “A niece? I thought she had already married?” 

“Not quite,” answers Oreius. “The prince of Telmar had been courting her and asked for her hand. King Lune refused his offer.” 

“And what makes you think the odds are in my favor?”

“You are no prince, your Majesty,” Oreius offers. “You are a King. Not only have Telmarines never proved themselves reliable allies, but we suspect the methods to King Lune’s decisions are driven by a purpose common to ours: a united front against Calormen.” 

Edmund massages the temple of his forehead. “If I leave, then Lucy will be left alone—”

“And left alone, I am still entirely capable,” she assures. 

“But Lu—”

“Her Majesty is more than qualified to defend Cair Paravel,” Oreius interjects, ready with an example. “None of my soldiers have forgotten how Queen Lucy the Valiant led the battalion in driving Jadis’s accomplices further in the North.”

It almost slips Edmund’s mind that his sister has grown into a fierce warrior, much more headstrong than he is charging into the fray. With her command, he knows Narnia could not be in safer hands, and finds even more difficulty in justifying why he should be the one who remains. 

“What do you think, Edmund?” Lucy asks, turning to her brother who is pacing himself back and forth in the war room.

Edmund still doesn’t answer when he eventually sits on the chair, eyes darkened with a dilemma, across the table where Lucy and Oreius are looking to him for guidance. Peter isn’t here to extend his usual god-like command. Susan isn’t present to offer a dollop of her logic and rationality. If it weren’t for today, Edmund would be busy playing his golden chess set against himself to keep his mind sharp. Or he would be behind three rows of bookshelves laden with Narnian philosophy, reading and absorbing all he could to make himself a better adviser to his brother and sisters. 

All of this gave him some semblance of control over his life. Yes, he is well-versed in the art of war and has designed—with impressive style—the strategies needed to win them. As King Edmund, the Just, he knows how to navigate the most turbulent of battle affairs. But as Edmund Pevensie, he has no clue how to proceed. With all that has kept him preoccupied in establishing security and peace and the default assumption that Peter would always swoop in and save the day, the idea of an arranged marriage has never been on his radar. 

With Peter gone and Susan in the possible brink of danger, could he really refuse such an arrangement, if only for the sake of his own desires? 

No, because that was the Edmund Pevensie who met the White Witch. 

Who is he if not his constant efforts to win over his people? Who is he if not the sacrifices made to redeem himself of the egregious sin of treachery?

He nearly died the night before. He cannot sustain that vulnerable image or it could mean Narnia’s own demise. 

Edmund rises from the chair with a starkly different demeanor. “I will take the offer.” 

Oreius and Lucy breathe a sigh of relief. “You mean, you will _make_ the offer?” His sister points out with a chuckle. “Go to Archenland to propose?” 

“And retrieve Susan and bring her home.’” Edmund adds, realizing how much work the consequences of his decision have already reaped. “Is my sister still in Calormen?”

“The Narnian Embassy is reported to be nearing the border to Anvard,” Oreius reports. 

“The sooner we leave, the more likely we can get to her. I don’t trust that Rabadash will let her go quite so easily,” Edmund says worriedly. “Travelling by sea shall be far quicker than transporting a company on foot. Oreius, prepare thirty crewmen for my company on board. The rest of the infantry should stay here.” 

“Right away, your Majesty,” he salutes with a click of his hooves and leaves the room.

“Come on, then.” Lucy says, motioning for her brother to come. “If we are to move forward as quickly as possible, you will need all the pomp and circumstance it will take to convince the princess to accept your proposal.” 

“Not a moment ago, you just expressed your confidence she will!” Edmund half-screeches, following his sister out of the door. “Wait, Lucy—”

“You can’t take it back, Edmund! It’s been decided!” 

He grabs her wrist to stop her, needing her to look at him and understand. “No, I mean. Is this what Peter would have done?”

Lucy tries to meet his brooding eyes with warmth and consolation. “Of course, Peter would have done anything to keep the peace. It’s what he’s trying to do right now with the giants.”

“I don’t know, Lucy. I feel like I should have gone north with him,” Edmund steps away with heavy gait. “I fear something’s happened.” 

“You mustn’t muddle your mind on such things. He’ll write to us when he can. I know it.” 

“But it’s been weeks, Lucy! When will he—”

“A letter for your Majesties!” 

Edmund almost trips at his feet, almost balks in suspicion at such a timely intrusion. He watches as Lucy takes the letter once again from the raven’s claws, hacks open the seal and beams at him, giving him the answer that should have consoled him.

“it’s from Peter,” Lucy says, “I told you, he’s safe.” 

She is smiling, running to embrace him. Even with the joyous news, he wishes for any divine explanation, whether it was the alteration of stars, the alignment of planets, the slow burning approach of winter—anything that could explain why despite very his best to match his sister’s iron-clad belief, all he could think about was the ugly, bitter feeling at the pit of his stomach—like no words further from the truth have been spoken. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> upcoming: peter, a missing prince, and the seeds of war being carefully planted

**Author's Note:**

> exploring some original characters, and having fun with the landscape of Narnia. let me know if this poses some interest for you and some worth for me to continue 
> 
> yours,  
> nimf


End file.
